The Complete Enslaved Chronicles

by R. K. Thorne

  “For you, Dekana,” she said, raising her face up to the few clouds ambling through the perfect blue sky. “I’d rather have you back, but this is the best I can do.”

  Lifting it from his hands, she cast the evil thing into the water, throwing it like a harpoon, wanting it away from her as quickly as her muscles would allow.

  The ocean swallowed it with an insignificant splash. She followed the metal as it drifted down, traced it with her mind. Ro’s eyes closed, working, following it too.

  As it neared the sand, she parted the earth, aching at the disturbance as she sensed creatures flitting away from inside the wet ocean floor. But they would find other homes. And hopefully, the brand wouldn’t.

  She parted the sand further and further until she found deeper earth, shoving wet soil aside and hitting rock and shearing a crack straight through that too.

  Into it the brand tumbled, and then it settled, quiet and still in the dark, gentle water.

  As fitting a tomb as she could devise.

  Together, they filled the rock and earth and sand back in, burying it as deeply as they could manage. And then, realizing she’d closed her eyes, she opened them and met Ro’s gaze.

  “It’s over,” he said, his eyes warm and intent on her.

  “I hope so,” she said warily. “At least for now.”

  “Either way, we’ve done our best. And that’s all we ever can do.”

  She smiled grudgingly. “You’re right.”

  “Dekana would be proud of you.”

  Now her smile grew truer, more sincere if tinged with sadness. “I hope so.”

  “So, want to take this little boat back to Evrical? I’ve heard it’s a scenic journey along the cost.” He grinned.

  She snorted. “Get me out of here, will you? Haven’t you seen me throw up enough?”

  He chuckled as he took up the oars again. “As I intend to stick around for a lifetime, I’m pretty sure this is a small fraction of what I plan to endure.”

  She ducked her head, hiding her pleasure at his words. It felt dangerous, too optimistic to be effervescently happy at a moment like this, even though the feeling was stubbornly bubbling up inside her. “Ugh, damn you and your clever quips, you don’t have to come up with clever comebacks while nauseated.”

  “That depends on what we eat tonight. You might get lucky and get your revenge.”

  She caught his eyes with a look of concern that melted to shaking her head. “I’ve had enough revenge for one lifetime, Tharomar. All I want to do now is fall asleep on the beach with you.”

  “That, my dear wife, can be arranged.”

  She flushed at the term, still fresh and strange in her ears. “And maybe have some shrimp later.”

  “I believe we can make that happen.”

  “And see if we can peddle any of our wares to those friendly villagers. Or that trader with the cart we saw by the road. Or—”

  He laughed. “You will never be satisfied, my love. Don’t forget we’ve already acquired enough vanilla to drown an army—and to fulfill our promises to our great queen and king.”

  “But I’m still looking for these fabled sugared violets. Someone has to have some.”

  “We can go into the city tomorrow, now that this work is done. Maybe they’ll even have sugared rose petals or lilies.”

  “Hey, my merchant empire has to start somewhere.”

  “It already has, my dear, it already has.”

  The trees stood like pillars of a cathedral, tall and black and reaching their graceful arms up into a blue sky already streaked with purple and orange. Miara hugged her arms around her, gripping her shoulders tightly and raising her face into the late-day sunlight. The cloak was smooth under her fingers, silk lined, with layers upon layers that left her warm in spite of the crisp chill in the air.

  A thin snow blanketed the earth, hiding just for one day all the imperfections of the world. It reached out like an interminable plane, dotted only with the tall trees, until it reached the water’s edge.

  Lake Senokin.

  They’d finally made it.

  The water looked dark, almost black from here, and she could see no one. Indeed, who would be here this time of year, save people as crazy as them? The priestess’s small hut huddled near the water’s edge and puffed warm, welcoming smoke from its chimney. Had it been another day, she’d have longed to head inside. Take shelter. Drink some warm wine, close her eyes, sleep the day away. She could do that, now that she wasn’t a slave. She didn’t, but technically she could. No amount of sleep seemed enough just yet, though, after the days in her crystal prison. Someday she’d get her fill. Might not be anytime soon.

  Winter wind danced the hair across her face and up toward the sky as it sent small ripples along the water. She smiled at its caress. It was not just the wind of the gods that swirled across her skin. It was him. Beckoning her.

  It was time.

  She followed the path the priestess had shown her the day before. Her feet were the first to trod across this snow, leaving fresh tracks that her cloak swirled and dusted into a wide trail behind her. The trail was marked by stones, now only small white rises by a tree trunk or two, but she didn’t miss them. She remembered the way. She might never forget it.

  The cave awaited her at the end, the pool inside a strangely vivid blue, the air humid and wet and close all of a sudden. A slight crack in the cavern roof let in dying sunlight, but she took the flint and steel waiting and lit the torches solemnly placed there the day before.

  She removed the cloak, removed the robe underneath. Removed everything and shivered in the frigid air, slipping quickly into the water. Warmth enveloped her, seeping slowly into her very core, and steam rose in a foggy mist around her face. She leaned against the far wall of the pool and closed her eyes.

  It was time to wait now, for the sun to dip its final path below the horizon.

  Akarians and their strange customs. Kalan—who it turned out had been hiding in the Ranok kitchens and then her home for quite some time in the chaos—had wanted to attend her, but Miara had held true to the most traditional path of coming alone. They were her customs now too, weren’t they? To some degree. There had been a day they were so foreign to her, when she’d dipped into Aven’s mind and seen them for the first time, from his perspective, over the awkward jolting of that wagon. The memory brought a flush to her cheeks even now.

  It’d seemed like they’d never make it out of there. How much more had they endured, overcome, since then?

  She let the quiet of the forest smooth her thoughts, let the heat of the water permeate her body, to every strained muscle, to her bloodied hands, to bruises that were gone but not forgotten, to the ache of seeing so much of Panar crushed to dust by Daes’s hand.

  They’d stopped him, though. They’d stopped it all. It was over.

  Mage Hall had been torn apart, first by the arriving Akarians and next by the unbranded slaves freed from the dungeons, from the drugs, from even a nearby mine. Teron had been lucky to find his mother in the chaos. Seulka—the Mistress—had been caught by some of the unbranded slaves, who’d been close to killing her before Akarian soldiers had intervened and thrown her in Mage Hall’s own dungeons. The Fat Master, once they’d broken through his many locks and separated him from a hideous mound of gold coin and brass trinkets, had joined her there. Now Dom was overseeing bringing them back to Panar to face their crimes.

  Seeing Mage Hall crumble made her sad in some small way. It had been a horrible place, but the place of her childhood too. Where her father had tucked her in at night. Where she’d taught Luha to ride a horse. Was Kres roaming free in the Kavanarian countryside, since the stables had been burned to ashes and torn asunder?

  But most of her was simply relieved. Like smoke vanishing into the blue sky above, its mark upon the world was over now. The mages it’d held were free, or they soon would be. Aven, Derk, and Wunik had been nearly killing themselves undoing it all, bathing that one dark corner of Kavanar
in starlight.

  And thank the gods for that. For all of it.

  Sometime later, she opened her eyes. Was that the splash of the priestess in the water? Darkness had nearly fallen, and Miara jumped to alert, her heart racing faster, those almost-relaxed muscles tensing once again.

  But from the other side of the pool, she just barely made out the priestess’s dark hair, her bronze skin, the white ghost of her robe swirling like a wildflower in the waters and clinging to her wet shoulders.

  “Miara?” she called in a rich, low voice. Miara thought the priestess might have been Takaran once upon a time. How funny that she hailed from a people who loved such large weddings but now officiated over the quietest, smallest way in the world for two people to become husband and wife.

  “I’m here,” she responded, moving toward the voice. Away from the torches. Further into the darkness.

  The rumble of the small waterfall grew louder as she followed the priestess through the waters. Here these pools tumbled into the lake, fog rising up on all sides, hiding anything but the barest glimpse of the form ahead of her as she slipped out of the water that’d grown almost too hot now. She followed the priestess quietly down the stone steps, no different at the moment than the day she was born.

  She heard rather than saw the priestess splash into the lake, and then she was at the last step, the cold waters of Senokin lapping at her feet.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped out, and cold water swallowed her, slid across her skin, not nearly as frigid as she’d expected but instead almost refreshing. Exciting. Invigorating. Her body felt intensely and desperately alive.

  “This way, Miara,” called the priestess.

  She swam toward the sound of her voice, leaving the cave and emerging into the night. She paused, staring up at the canopy of the heavens overhead. The sun had given up its fight, and the moon rose now, high and glorious in the sky.

  Stars sparkled above her, exquisite and delicate as diamonds in a gown, bitterly powerful for all their winking and twinkling against the darkness.

  When she lowered her eyes, she could see him now, a dozen yards off, the priestess waiting patiently by his side. She had waited for this moment. Longed for it. And she would have waited a thousand lifetimes more. But she was glad it had finally come.

  Heart pounding, she swam toward them. For no reason she could discern, her stomach twisted, anxious, nervous, tense.

  But not afraid.

  She reached out, and his hand found hers under the frigid water, rough calluses from long days and hard fights scraping her skin, making her feel alive. As he always did.

  They turned to face the priestess together, side by side in the silver light, his arm brushing hers with warmth and reassurance.

  It was all over now, and something else—something better—was just beginning.

  Afterword

  Thank you so much for reading the Enslaved Chronicles. I hope you had a great time joining me on this adventure. If you’d like, I’d be honored if you left a review. Honest reviews help others like you discover books they may love for themselves, and I appreciate hearing from readers and honest feedback.

  If you’re on Instagram, let me know what you thought and tag it with #rkthorne!

  Check out my website for upcoming book news and occasional free bonuses. There is a fun little bonus epilogue you can get by joining my monthly newsletter as well.

  In other worlds, I have a romantic sci-fi adventure series in progress and a new fantasy just about to hit the metaphorical shelves. More honorable heroes falling for each other in stressful situations… just sometimes we trade magical swords for laser guns. ;) Hop on my newletter to also get updates on those, free stories, maps, and more.

  And thank you again for joining me on this adventure!

  Also by R. K. Thorne

  Audacity Saga

  The Empress Capsule

  Capital Games

  Untitled Book 3 (Coming 2019)

  Clanblades Series

  Dagger of Bone (Coming 2019)

  Blade of the Moon (Forthcoming)

  The Enslaved Chronicles

  Mage Slave

  Mage Strike

  Star Mage

  About the Author

  R. K. Thorne is an independent fantasy author whose addiction to notebooks, role-playing games, coffee, and red wine have resulted in this series.

  She has read speculative fiction since before she was probably much too young to be doing so and encourages you to do the same.

  She lives in the green hills of Pennsylvania with her family and two gray cats. They may or may not pull her chariot in their spare time.

  For more information:

  rkthorne.com